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Amy, still in the broom closet, my cock still in her, said, again, “Idiot.” But her tone was affectionate. It was, apparently, cute to be a jealous dickhead. Conditions probably applied, but this time I was being allowed to get away with it.

She reached back and dislodged my cock from its immensely comfortable place. She bounced on her toes, getting her knickers back in place and her dress down to cover her ass. So I dropped the condom in the pail and put my cock back into my pants and zipped up. Amy straightened, grabbed at the shelf above us for balance, and turned to kiss me. There was a sound from above.

Bad advice, as always from these things. I’m here to tell you: you don’t need to have sex in a closet.

I kissed her. We kissed. She said, “You’re my idiot.” Something heavy wobbled on that shelf above our heads. I heard it fall on its side, then roll, then nothing more.

I pushed Amy against the back wall of the closet for safety, and tried to duck whatever was coming down.

Suddenly we were on the gallery floor, in a confused pile with brooms and mops and coats and mobcaps, and Amy’s body and mine. And the rusted tin of paint thinner that had tried to brain me. I looked up, confused and aggrieved by life, and a second later light exploded.

Flawed, me. And floored.

Someone, no, several people, were taking photos. Amy was turned away, looking for her shoes.

So it was portrait of me, bewildered and resentful, with Amy’s hair and most of her legs visible. But I hadn’t thought about the media yet.

Instead I found I was staring up into the eyes of the gallery’s guest of honour, Rico, the Minister for the Arts. Rico was in the Lega Nord, and a fascist in the seldom-used literal sense of the word.

He looked down on us, aghast. He thought this was done deliberately to humiliate him. He shouted, “tu puttana!” He meant Amy was a whore. Sexual insults directed at women were always ready to hand.

It took a few seconds’ thought to come up with something for me. “Tu malvagio disgustoso! Morta cristo ebreo!” I was surprised. I didn’t think I looked especially Jewish. But I suppose anyone who made him angry gained honorary Jewish status.

Frankly, I’d rather fuck in Compton

So the cameras switched from me to Rico. He was still shouting at us. Although there was a moment when he paused, realizing that his bizarre antisemitism was going to be get him bad headlines. All the bad headlines.

Instead he shouted that we were foul, disgusting sexual degenerates, and how dare we fuck, fuck of all things, in this sacred place for the arts!

I looked up at him. Amy was still dazed by the fall. I shouted, “We weren’t fucking!” The lie absolute. I decided to go for the lie surreal. “This is art! Performance Art, you fucking moron!

In that broom closet, as I entered her, Amy said, “You.” I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but it wasn’t hostile. I pushed my cock further into her, thumbs still digging hard into that crease between her buttocks and thighs.

She said, “Idiot.” But it seemed that at moment she liked idiots. We began to move together, Amy’s ass beautifully firm in my hands and beautifully soft to the pressure of my cock.

We moved faster, and I felt her elbows slipping. She’d stopped holding her hands out.

Amy fell forward, her breasts and face pressed hard and helpless against the closet wall. She scrabbled at the closet wall for a grip, with nothing to grip. We fucked harder.

It was pitch black in there, but I felt sure I knew her facial expression at every second, at every movement. I believed she knew the same about me.

I could feel her body tense, and that was no reason to stop or ask how she was. I pumped her, my stomach pressed against her ass.

In a while – my sense of time is never good in these moments – she said, “Nggggh. Fuck!” And, a few seconds later, “fuck me!”

I already was. I did. I smacked her bottom, as much of it as I could reach. It was a moving target. And again. And in a few more seconds Amy gasped for breath, and her body shook.

I wrapped my arms round her stomach, holding her tight against me. We came, more or less at the same time. It was hard to be quiet when we came, but we managed.

Eventually I released my grip on her stomach and raised my hands to hold her breasts. Amy tried to turn, to kiss me, but at that moment I wasn’t going to let her move.

I smacked her bottom again. I said, “Yeah, girl. You are not to- Look, just no fucking fucking art critics.”

So we were together, Amy saying thank god I’d rescued her from Mr Suave. I didn’t say how jealous I’d been, because that was discreditable. But jealousy and idiocy were still driving me. I walked her into the crowd, which had grown since the Minister’s speech, such being the power of free wine and food. And I pulled her towards me, and opened a door I’d noticed before, hoping it led to another room, possibly an unoccupied one.

Amy said, “Are you serious? The broom closet?”

I said, as if I’d known it was a broom closet, “Yes!” I spun, with my hands on Amy’s hips so that we both disappeared inside.

There was total blackness once I pulled the door closed. Then light; Amy had turned on the torch on her phone. She held it for me while I carefully moved mops and brooms, a metal pail with rollers to squeeze mops, and an upright vacuum cleaner to one end of the closet. “Put your damn hands on the wall, like your fucking friend,” I said.

There were things Amy could say to me about that, and I knew it, but she complied. She was being a good girl: that had mostly proven to be fun. I took her phone from her hand and slipped it into my jacket pocket.

We were back in total blackness. I pulled the little black cocktail dress up at the back and lifted it, Amy wriggling to help, and arching her back so her ass was poised for me.

I still had jealous anger driving me, and lust with it, though I’d started to realize I hadn’t broken up a romance between her and the critic; more heroically, if inadvertently, I’d rescued her. But that spurious sense of justified anger propelled me, and I smacked Amy’s right buttock and pulled her little knickers aside. I shook out a condom from my wallet, unzipped and put it on. I held her hips with all my strength, and pushed, cock hard and righteous, into her. Amy sighed. “Yeah.”

I slid my hands down to hold her lower buttocks, interested in the creased skin at the meeting of her buttocks and thighs. I said, “Creases.” Suddenly the word seemed to have intense sexual significance. And I sank into her, so our bodies met, my cock fully buried in wet, warm Amy. Ensconced.

In our room we both stripped off our clothes, and showered together for warmth. Once we were out, I dried her roughly with the towel, and then told her to fetch the tawse.

“Fetch” is such a sexy word, in these circumstances.

She got it from the bedside drawer, on her side of the bed. It was on its side, being too thick to be coiled, or even folded. She held it out to me with both hands. “Sir.”

I took it from her gravely, and held it, in my right hand. It’s odd how something that small changes the emotional and sexual dynamic in a room. “If I told you to assume the position, Shar, what position would you assume?”

“Um. You’re a traditionalist. Sometimes. So I’d bend over, very tight, with my legs together but my bottom arched up so you can watch my cunt. And I’d put the palms of my hands on the floor. Since I’m so bendy, and you like a bendy girl.”

It was easier than it sounds, for Shar to place her palms on the floor in that position. There are times when short girls have an advantage. I watched her, awed. Sexual presentation has power, of course. It works on bonobos. It works on me.

I raised the tawse. I wanted to hear her scream tonight. The first time from pain. Probably not the second time.

Shar didn’t argue. She didn’t even look skeptical, so I poured more lube onto my fingers while they were partly withdrawn, and pushed forward again.

She was still tight, but there was enough lube, for now. My fingers slid in her quite easily, and there was no tension in the set of her face or her body.

We continued until Shar began to move, rocking with my fingers, pleasuring herself. We stayed with this, letting Shar move on my fingers, for a long time.

But eventually I took my fingers slowly out of her, and patted her bottom where I’d spanked her. “Are you ready, love?”

“Yes. Let’s try.”

I put my knees between hers, and held her hips tightly, letting her feel strength, and need for her. My cock pressed against her cunt, and I had to fight my urgent need to be all the way in her.

“This works better if you guide my cock into you, Shar. You have to grip hard, and just aim it at your asshole. Do that, for me.”

She reached back and touched my cock, tentatively. I said, “Cock wants to go into easy places. Like your cunt, or… anywhere. You need to hold it hard. And if you’re in control, you can make sure the angle is as comfortable as we can make it. Yes?”

Shares grip on my cock tightened. I gasped. There was nothing Shar could do, just then, that wouldn’t feel good. She lowered her ass just a little, and set the head of my cock against her little ring. She said, “Yes.” I pressed forward.

The head of a cock is more of a challenge than two, or even three fingers. But I held her hips tight, as she held my cock, and pushed forward. Her anal ring hesitated, unwilling to open so far, and then opened. It was a sudden give, and Shar cried out. Partly in pain, and partly because of the strangeness of the sensation. She moved forward instinctively, to get rid of me.

“No, girl.” I put my hand on the ball of her hip, in warning. “If I slip out, I’ll only have to enter again. It’s the single most challenging part. You need to keep me in you, just inside you, until it feels better. I won’t move till you’re ready.”

Shar breathed out, penetrated for the first time. She had nothing to say about that. I kept still, praising her, just the glans of my cock lodged, held. Eventually I felt her relax.

I pushed forward another inch, savoring every movement, every sensation. But I made myself stop again. Shar trembled. It didn’t seem to be painful, but it was difficult.

Her anal tube held me, gripping, no longer trying to expel me. I sighed with pleasure, hoping she felt even a fraction of what I felt.

“You’re brave. And perfect.” While I meant it, and she liked praise, praise can’t do everything. But eventually she relaxed again, and I pushed further this time, burying my cock in her, my groin pressed again her presented ass. Shar made a nasal sound. That contact, my body touching hers, was good. So I pressed deeper, until we were fully joined. I’m not sure at what point you can say an anal virginity is gone, but this one definitely had flown.

We kept still, pressing as tightly against each other as we could. I recognized a change in Shar’s breathing. This was starting to reach her. The pain had abated to the point where she could parse it as pleasure, and the actual sensation of being filled seemed to be… good.

Note

I’m onto the last chapter of Part 4. Part 5 is – I think – only three chapters long, so I’ll be finished soon. I’m going to buy champagne for the entire internet! (But you’ll have to drop round to get your share.)

We embraced in the hotel room, beside the bed. I undid Shar’s jeans and pulled her top off. “Turn round, Shar.”

Shar turned her back. She’d forgotten to make a demonstration of how good she was being: look! I even humor you when you give me an order! Nor did she produce her usual playful defiance. I made no comment because simple obedience is another stage in submission, and in its early stages it’s fragile.

I undid her bra and took it off her, holding her breasts firmly while she leant back against me.

I kissed her neck and pinched her nipples between my thumbs and forefingers. Not to hurt, but to make her aware that I could hurt her, if I chose to. She was, literally, in my hands. Submission, when it’s offered, has to be accepted and rewarded.

She sighed and pushed her ass back against my groin. I said, “Excuse me.” I pushed her panties down to her knees, and held one hand to her lower belly, almost touching her cunt. “Take those right off.”

“Yes, Sir.” Shar crouched for an instant. She was naked now, nicely contrasted with fully-clothed me.

“Spread your legs for me.” My fingers pressed, frustratingly, just above her cunt, and that made that order one that had to be obeyed urgently. She spread, and fell forward a little when two of my fingers entered her, relying on me to catch her.

“Good girl.” I slipped a third finger inside her and pressed and stroked spongy wet girl. Her breath synchronized with the movements of my fingers. “That’s good. Who’s a good girl?”

“Me, Sir?” She was pretty sure that was the right answer, but she didn’t want to seem smug about it.

“Yes. You.” I smacked her bottom, affectionately but hard enough to hurt, if she was in one mood, and for her to feel relieved and released by it if she were in another mood.

She said, very quietly, “Hahrr.” So she was in the mood where being smacked felt good. I took my fingers out of her and held them to her mouth. Shar hesitated for a moment and I smacked her again. She opened her mouth and sucked my fingers. She’d been reluctant to have me lick her this morning, I wondered if this was the first time she’d ever tasted herself. I didn’t ask. She seemed happy enough not to have to think.

“Good girl. Now face me.” Shar turned and we kissed. I put my hands on her ass, cupping one rounded, muscled half-globe in each hand, then lifted and separated slightly.

That reminded her of something. “You’re going to use that tawse on me now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, love. But not as a punishment. For pleasure. Including your pleasure, though I’m going to enjoy it. You’ve been incredibly good.”

Shar kissed me again, smiling. She liked being told she was good. My approval had become important.

“I’m awed by what you did for that girl this afternoon. I was so proud to be with you. So I couldn’t punish you again. Today.”

She smiled, irony back in her expression. “Today.”

Note:

Another segment of novel. For you because I love you all, and also because I’m writing, and very short on blogging time..

“Yup. What I won’t like is repeating them. That’s when you get your ass smacked.”

“But you’ll do that anyway. Already do.”

At about the same moment I said, “Taxi.”

“Trains are cheaper.”

“Not so much, for two people. And we got bags. And you’re a girl with no knickers on, and you might need privacy. “ She didn’t blush. So I said, “Though you will have to behave yourself. Taxi driver could hardly miss it if I have to punish you.” That worked.

She said, “Er…” But we rolled our bags to the taxi stand.

I organized the handle of my carry-on bag and my coat to block the gap between the front seats.

Shar sat beside me, staring forward, eyes glazing a little, while I slipped my fingers between warm damp thighs and into her cunt. Shar’s mouth dropped. She hadn’t been sure I really would do this. But she was a wet,welcoming girl.

She smiled, amused by me. Then she made her face straight, as if this wasn’t happening. I stroked inside her cunt, sometimes gently and sometimes hard, making her gasp as quietly as she could.

She tried to keep her upper body still and her face blank, At the same time she rolled her hips slightly and slowly to move with and make use of my fingers.

She put her hand on my wrist, not to stop me but to hold me, squeezing sometimes tight and sometimes with every ounce of her strength. Her face was red, not from embarrassment but from the effort of suppressing any – or most – sounds of her pleasure.

Cause something is happening and you don’t know what it is…

The taxi driver was grumpy when we stopped, though not because a woman had been pleasured in the back of his cab. He knew that much, I suppose, because there was a particularly focussed quality in our silence, with Shar’s occasional gasps, that gave us away.

Taxi drivers must be used to that sort of thing in their back seats, and if they minded unduly they wouldn’t drive taxis.

What annoyed him was that the little wall I’d built with my bag and coat meant he hadn’t been able to watch in the rear vision mirror, and the angle was wrong for cab-cam.

I wondered if that, in some taxi-driver-centric universe, was a legitimate grievance. I decided it couldn’t be but tipped him over the odds anyway. So we shook hands, though he knew where my hand had been, and parted on mutually congratulatory terms.

But I stopped because I couldn’t think of anything that compared to what had just happened.

So I lowered my head and kissed Daphne’s cunt with adoration. Then I kissed it goodbye, and inched my way up her body, kissing points of interest on the way.

I took her left nipple in her mouth, sucked it erect and then bit it lightly, apply little grazing bites and rubbing gently with tongue and teeth.

Daphne muttered something pleasure-related, arching her back to give me better access. I sucked the nipple and as much of her breast as I could manage into my mouth.

She looked down then and saw my face for the first time since I’d thrown her onto the bed. “Oh god, your face! You’re wet! Did I -?”

“Absolutely. Quite a lot really.”

“Oh god, Freddie, I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was going to do that. It hasn’t happened in ages.”

“Now you’re just making me smug.”

“Well, not all guys like it. Some react like it’s, well, gross.”

“Any guy who is anything except flattered is not worth your time and has no place in your bed. Fact.”

“Wow. That’s fervent. And a bit hardline. What if he hadn’t heard of it and didn’t expect it. And he thought I’d pissed on him?”

“If he doesn’t do his reading he deserves to have you piss on him. OK, if he’s cute you’re allowed to forgive him, I suppose. Anyway, I was flattered beyond belief. Specially when you said you hadn’t done it in ages.”

“Smug is right. By the way, didn’t you spank me in the middle of all that? Who said you could spank me?”

“Um. I could say, ‘the moment’, or something. But I got no excuse, unless I guessed right and you found it a little bit hot. I took a risk. No, the fact is, I had no right to.”

“I bet that’s not part of your code of ethics, is it?”

“No.”

“Hah! I like that I made you break your code of ethics. And yes, I did find it a little bit hot.”

There was some risk of a conversation about sexual politics. Which I enjoy, but just then my cock was hard, and it would wilt under political pressure. I was certain we could think of better things to do. So I clambered a little further up her body and kissed her mouth. Daphne kissed me back, and put her hands back in my hair. We were being lovers again.

I’m at the point in the novel where the heroine is in the bathroom with an enema kit “making herself nice” for the hero to buttfuck her. The hero thinks that’s charmingly shy, though he doesn’t think it’s necessary. I hope I don’t get so far into their respective states of mind that I forget to make it sexy.

So I’m a bit busy just now. (Though there will be a Wicked Wednesday episode this week.) In the meantime, here’s another slice of this novel thing.

Get your FREE novel excerpt here!

FREE novel segment!

I pushed Shar’s feet further apart, and, distracted, she accommodated me. She was still standing, being pleasured, her cunt moving on my slick-wet hand, trying to get my cock into her.

I can’t transcribe her from about that point. But Shar likes to be vocal when she’s excited.

“Hang on. Condom. Fucking condom. Hang on.” I stepped back so my cock was free, then pressed her cunt with my hand, gently, in farewell.

“K.”

“And Shar, you keep your ass up, and keep your damn hands on the bed.” Sometimes when I’m very aroused I forget who is a submissive woman and who isn’t. But Shar kept her place.

She said, “you mean, you want me bent over?”

I stopped for a second and stared at her. She was still in position, looking down at her hands, bottom arched up. She was teasing me, of course, but it was the fifth time she’d said a variant of ‘bend over’. I decided that if she said it a sixth time, I really was going to spank her. Not hard, but she’d experience a real spanking, just the same. Over my knee and enough to color her skin.

I stood behind Shar and pressed forward, my thighs pressed against her presented buttocks. She reached back and guided my cock into her, and we joined, focused on sensation.

There was warmth and wet, and there was hardness in softness.

Then I slid deeper, and Shar held herself completely still, also silent, letting me move for both of us. Time was slow, or I was. Sensitive centimeters. I was buried in Shar. I heard her take in a breath, her first in a while. It took an effort to remember to breathe too.

My novel has been taking up a lot of my blogging time and energy. It’s a bdsm comic romance novel, which is not the commonest genre in the world.

Anyway, I finished Part 3 about an hour ago. It’s survived two critical re-readings so far, and it seems to be good.

So to celebrate here’s a special offer. An excerpt from my novel, ABSOLUTELY FREE!

(Hah! Like I charge for anything.)

From The Tawse’s Tale

We kissed, mouth to mouth, my hands in her hair at last. Then, while her tongue ran along my top teeth, and I smelt breath of green herbs, I lowered my hands to unclasp that bra. In some ways I’m a disappointment to women who really like lingerie. I always prefer bare skin. And though I have kinks enough, I’ve never really been a bra and stocking-tops fetishist. The sexiest thing about Shar dressed as she was just then, to me, was knowing that she wanted me to think she was sexy. That’s the hot part.

Anyway, I wanted to hold her breasts and take as much as possible of each breast into my mouth, and then kiss and suck on each nipple in turn, perhaps grazing each lightly with my teeth. So I had honorable intentions and projects involving her breasts, all of which needed the bra to go.

But Shar reached back and put her hand on mine, blocking the hand that was trying to undo the bra. “No, darling, not the bra. I’m – The bra stays, darling.”

She chuckled happily when my face fell, and kissed my nose by way of compensation.

I thought perhaps she was shy about her breasts, which would certainly have drawn male attention when she was still young, and not all men are nice to adolescent girls. So I ran my hands lightly down her body, watching and loving the trembling as I held her hips. I edged my fingertips under the cami-knickers. Shar looked happy at my attentions and intentions, then infinitely sad. “No, I can’t. Freddie.”

So I stopped, but kissed her. I wasn’t quite sure what to do. She said, “This is like a date, yes?”

“Yes.” I frowned, puzzled.

“I’m not going to fuck you on the second date.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t look so stricken, Freddie darling. I quite like your chances for the third date.”

“Um. Then why -?”

“Darling, this isn’t something you can argue about. I was taught things about sex and not to be a slut.”

“I’m a slut,” I said. “It’s not so bad.”

“Yes, but you’re a man. It’s different for men. Freddie, I know you don’t believe in these rules, and neither do I. But … I still can’t fuck you on the second date.”

She kissed me again. “But don’t feel too bad. On a second date, a girl is allowed to do things that’ll keep her man interested.”

I said, “Whuh?” Shar undid the button of my jeans and tugged the zipper down. “Oh.” I raised my ass off the carpet for a few seconds so she could wrest my jeans down, and then off. She put her hand on my cock, still trapped in cotton, running her fingertips along its length, then clasping it firmly, feeling it throb against her palm. “Oh. Well, indeed. This seems kind of historical. But obviously it’s very fine .”

Shar glanced up at my face for an instant. “I really don’t think you need to talk.”

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